Category: Department

O.Henry Ending

George the Wonder Cat

A king of many hearts

By Marianne Gingher

One dreary afternoon, I hear my cat door flap open and glimpse a small orange cat slipping towards the kitchen. My own cat, Dewey Moon, is sawing logs on the sofa beside me. Normally, if any stranger breaches his castle, Dewey puffs to twice his size and leaps to investigate.

I follow the little orange guy, and he notes me matter-of-factly. In fact, I have never met a less intimidated cat burglar. I scoop him up — a featherweight. One eye is blue and one is green. He has a white face, white chest, white paws. Otherwise, he is the pale-orange color of a Dreamsicle. There is immense trust in that little poker face.

His tag informs me that he lives a few houses away; he has people, but what a cold, rainy day it is, and so I feed him. In my house, if you appear to be waylaid by trouble or weather, I feed you. He eats a bowlful and follows me back to the sofa. Dewey awakes, stretches, rubs noses with the little guy, offers to make him a cup of tea. Little guy says he’s already had refreshments, then makes himself right at home, licking a few remaining raindrops from his fur and nuzzling into a throw-blanket. After his nap, he meows to be let out, and I watch him trot confidently in the direction of his home.

The next day, I walk to his house and find him taking a sun bath on his porch. We wave fondly at one another.

“Do you know that cat?” I ask a neighbor.

“Everybody knows George,” the man says. “He’s feeling displaced these days.”

“Why?”

“There’s a new baby at his house.”

•

The baby’s name is Owen. I soon meet the entire family because George loses his collar over the weekend, and I report it to his mom, Madison. “I’ve already ordered a new one,” she says. “Thanks for looking out for him. Hope he’s not being a nuisance.”

I confess that I fed him, that he is pals with Dewey and that the three of us sometimes nap together. I suggest that, if George became my cat, it would be OK.

“Making friends is George’s thing,” Madison tells me. “He gets free range because we want him to be his authentic self. You’ll love his new collar. It fits a bon vivant like George.”

It is a red bowtie.

•

Everybody who meets George loves him. He shows up whenever I have visitors and glad-hands around the room, like he’s running for office.

•

One Halloween, George is hanging out with Dewey and me when Madison and husband Carr bring their kids by to trick-or-treat. After she sees them together, daughter Ellis starts planning George’s and Dewey’s wedding.

•

George is 18, possibly older. He also has serious kidney issues. But does he ever whine about his ailments? No, siree. Life is for the living, George insists, batting around a cat toy, then jumping on Dewey’s head.

•

When Madison lets me know that George has died (“gone over the rainbow” is how she puts it), after I have wept a good long while, I feel the need to write about him. The writer Sandra Cisneros once told me that the way to write about grief is to write about the presence of a lost loved one, not their absence. And my dear friend George keeps on being present. Through him, I’ve become friends with his funny and spirited family, a gift that endures.

He was not my cat, and maybe he was not a cat at all. You begin to think that way when your doorway has been brightened by a radiant someone who seems to transcend the limitations of their species while making the world a better place. OH

Marianne Gingher is a Greensboro writer, artist and puppeteer who lives with her beloved cat, Dewey Moon.

Wandering Billy

How I Spent the Bicentennial Summer

Stirring up scandal in a sleepy Southern hamlet

By Billy Ingram

“A small town has as many eyes as a fly.” — Sonya Hartnett

As a 19-year-old in the summer of ’76, I landed a gig as an ensemble player in a new, outdoor drama, The Liberty Cart: A Duplin Story, written by Randolph Umberger. He’d penned another open-air theatrical production debuting that year, Strike at the Wind!, a Lumbee Indian pageant performed in Pembroke. Liberty Cart was set, both in story and in fact, in Kenansville (pop. 900 then, a bit less today), situated between here and the coast. Kenansville was an unassuming hamlet only accessible by traveling down two-lane roads before the I-40 extension was completed in the 1990s.

All of the 10 professional actors hired for Liberty Cart portrayed multiple roles with the exception of one. Tom Hull solely played Phenius Pickett, a wise, old, time-traveling pushcart peddler who wove together oft-told tales of Duplin County lore as seen through the prism of the Kenan family’s Revolutionary War experience and beyond, into war-torn South in 1864. The Kenan family’s claim to fame, so far as I can tell, is that they were fabulously wealthy, thanks to the oil and gas business. To this day, it’s a philanthropic surname splashed across multiple buildings on the UNC-Chapel Hill campus.

Having spent little time in small towns without high and low tides, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Certainly not strutting center stage into a bewildering psychodrama soon surreptitiously swirling around us.

In an art form rooted in North Carolina theatrical tradition, Tom Hull was already a bona fide outdoor-drama star, having portrayed the comical drunk Old Tom in Lost Colony for a decade. Tom, myself and a trio of other cast members bunked together in a three-bedroom house that I christened “Freedom Shack” due to its location directly next door to Liberty Hall, the Kenan family ancestral home, which played a central role in our production. It was the town’s one claim to fame, a historical tourist attraction then and now. Following a month of rigorous rehearsal, Liberty Cart opened on July 29. I was assigned five character parts, including the first boo-hiss villain, Henry McCulloch, a British fop seated atop a luxuriously appointed barge carried aloft by servants. I also played a shady land speculator there to stump for a tax stamp scheme steaming the colonies leading up to the Revolutionary War. The Richlands-Beaulaville Advertiser News described my performance as an “absurdly humorous interpretation of the King’s representative.” On the front page, no less. I wonder now how I was able to finish a single play. Constructed to last for years, those period costumes were woolen saunas in the brutally humid summer swelter.

During down time, Tom and I were home a lot, content to read away lazy afternoons. Tom, a New York City resident, was genuinely loving the change of scenery and relished serving as de-facto housemother, cooking meals most nights partly out of necessity. The lone restaurant in this no-stoplight town, the Tastee-Freez, had bug sprayers positioned above the dining room tables for spritzing insecticide into the air — RAID raining down on your cheeseburger and fries every few minutes.

There was a quaint little diner across Main Street from Freedom Shack, but it had closed recently, rumored to have been forced out of business because the proprietor was African American. I talked the guy into opening just for us at noon. So every day, this gentleman took our orders — pork chop sandwiches were a favorite — then strolled next door to the Piggly-Wiggly for what he needed to prepare our lunch while we howled with laughter watching The Gong Show on TV.

Along with Tom, my Freedom Shack roommates were Roger Dale Jackson, Kevin Flanigan and David Elliott. With a thick head of red hair, Roger was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, intensely serious about acting as were the others. I really looked up to Kevin, incredibly effective in that outdoor setting as the handsome, smoldering young firebrand. Two seasons earlier he’d wowed audiences in a major role in Horn in the West. David was athletic, no affectations, and once brought along his Labrador retriever, who absconded with a roast we left marinating on the kitchen counter.

One of my best friends from college, “Sweet” Val McCaw, was also cast in Liberty Cart. Her dramatic moments are still talked about in Kenansville. No, really, especially her turn as Mammy Till chasing Yankees from Liberty Hall’s kitchen. Because of the time periods depicted, Val was relegated to playing domestics, which ultimately didn’t sit well with her, being a proud, independent, young Black woman.

Supporting players, dozens of all ages, were recruited from nearby Wilson, Warsaw, Rose Hill, Wallace and Beulaville. They were some of the nicest folks I’ve encountered in life, but I quickly became aware of awkward, sideways glances from shopkeepers and pickup trucks when Val and I meandered around the four or five local businesses that constituted a downtown. Unbeknownst to us, it was a downright scandal that the whitest teenager God ever blanched and a Black co-ed were flagrantly lollygagging around town together. A local mechanic having a fling with one of the actresses, their relationship consummated on the back steps of sacred Liberty Hall, informed us that townspeople routinely tracked us via their CB radios. Val was mortified . . . that anyone would consider for a moment that we were a couple!

Val had the last laugh, however. At a cast party meet-and-greet held in Freedom Shack’s backyard, with Kenansville’s hoi polloi in attendance, Val stepped from the house, screen door slapping shut behind her, and announced, “Billy, I left the jeans I borrowed from you yesterday on your bed.” Jaws dropped and eyes popped like beasts in a Tex Avery cartoon.

The only cast member with a car, I had deputies hugging the back bumper of my ’72 Dodge Dart Swinger while driving.

Discovering one morning that someone had sideswiped my Swinger, parked overnight on the street, naturally I attempted to file a report with the Sheriff for insurance purposes. Peering above mirrored sunglasses, fully reclining in his swivel chair like the stereotypical good ol’ boy with a badge in every Southern noir movie ever filmed, he blithely commented that he knew who was responsible but wasn’t going to do a damned thing about it. In the rural South of the ’70s, everyone knew their place; if not, it would be made plain to you at some point.

Whereabouts of most of the cast is a mystery. Roger Dale Jackson was seen in a dramatic role in a 1985 episode of AfterMASH, passing away in 2020. Tom Hull died in 2009. I wish I’d had a chance to talk with him again. Of all the cast members, we were the closest as he was the first openly gay person I ever met. Tom moved to Wilmington in the 1980s, where he had a stellar stage career, appearing in occasional movies like Raw Deal in 1986, a role that found him ruthlessly pummeled by Arnold Schwarzenegger. Pretty funny we both ended up working on that same project, myself as a West Coast movie poster artist for the film. Val McCaw married her high school sweetheart, William, enjoying the love of a warm and close-knit family in Colorado.

In a return visit to Kenansville a few years back, I discovered several changes. The town has an intersection with a stoplight now. Liberty Hall is even more of a tourist attraction today, but our beloved Freedom Shack was long ago demolished for additional parking. Liberty Cart closed in 1990 and the amphitheater is covered over in kudzu, but several locally owned restaurants thrive there today, including a soul food joint that residents rave about. OH

Born and raised in Greensboro, Billy Ingram moved to downtown in the 1990s after a career in Hollywood as a key member of the design team the ad world has dubbed, “The New York Yankees of Motion Picture Advertising.”

2026 Department Wandering Billy

Birdwatch

Carolina Newcomer

A summer visitor from down South

By Susan Campbell

The limpkin is not a familiar bird to many in our area, but this good-sized wader isn’t a complete stranger to North Carolina. Over the years there have been plenty of sightings, and there is a good chance there will be plenty more — so much so that the species may be breeding here before much longer.

Although we hear a lot about birds that are in trouble — those disappearing from their usual haunts as a result of habitat loss, climate change, predation by invasive species, etc. — there are some that are actually becoming more widespread. Slowly but surely, the limpkin is one of these.

Limpkins, native to the subtropical region of the Americas, are wading birds that eat a variety of aquatic invertebrates. They are brown with white spangles and blotches, long legs and, most importantly, a relatively long decurved bill. Appearing a lot like a heron or ibis, they are actually more closely related to rails, those secretive smaller birds found lurking in marshy habitat. Their slightly offset bills are specialized for extracting the bodies of apple snails from their twisty shells, but they are equipped to get into a variety of mussels and clams as well. It is thought that the bird’s name originates from its halting gait as well as an odd running style when pursued.

Here in the U.S., limpkins were once confined to the wetter parts of Florida as well as the coastal marshes of the Gulf Coast states. Over the past few decades, however, they have been spotted farther north in Georgia and southern South Carolina. Given that they now even breed in a few locations “south of the border,” it’s no wonder that individuals have been spotted here in our state. The first was reported along the North Carolina coast (no surprise) in 1975, but in more recent years, they have been found in the Piedmont, too. There have also been a handful of sightings in our western counties. I saw my first N.C. limpkin during the summer of 1998 in a marshy water hazard at a golf course community close to New Bern.

The expansion of this species can be connected to multiple factors. First, invasive mollusks such as Asiatic clams and apple snails have become more abundant in freshwater systems across the Southeast in recent years. That spread of a ready food source, coupled with warmer winters, has provided additional habitat for limpkins. Furthermore, increasingly frequent and prolonged drought within their historic range has resulted in more birds roaming northward in search of the wet habitat they require.

With the summer of 2026 likely to be a dry one in the Southeast, it is very likely some limpkins will arrive here in the weeks ahead. A number of individuals showed up late in the summer of 2023 and persisted well into the fall. If you happen to be out at any of the larger reservoirs, or even along a creek or near a retention pond, keep an eye out — you just might spot one of these unusual creatures on the prowl for a meal or a new summer hangout. OH

Susan Campbell would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photos. She can be contacted by email at susan@ncaves.com.

2026 Birdwatch Department

Chaos Theory

Home Is Where the Dogs Are

And the more the merrier

By Cassie Bustamante

Years ago after our beagle, Charlie, died at the age of 13, I remember my much more practical husband, Chris, saying to me, “Now, we will be a one-dog family.” I nodded in agreement as I, fingers crossed, scratched behind the long, tan, velvety ears of Charlie’s younger “brother” — 10-year-old basset-beagle mix, Jake.

Months later, as the ninth birthday of our son, Sawyer, rolls around, I broach the subject. “What do you think we should get Sawyer this year?” I ask, before blurting out, “He really misses Charlie. What if we found him a rescue — maybe a retriever who can play fetch?”

Scouring local rescue listings, filter set to “retrievers,” my heart does a little flip when I see one puppy’s photo. I make a preliminary visit to his foster home and know this dog is zero part retriever. Even though his litter mates are all mutts, two puppies look exactly like Weimaraners with short, grayish fur and blue eyes, and a couple others clearly resemble Australian shepherds in tan, brown and white. But this little guy? He has a look all his own, a perfect, unique combo of the two. Retriever or not, I’m already head-over-heels in puppy love.

Before long, Chris, Sawyer and Sawyer’s little sister, Emmy, meet — and fall for — the tiny, fuzzy, greige puppy with smiling hazel eyes and white-tipped paws. Even before the pup comes home, Sawyer selects a Jabba-the-Hut stuffed toy, chewy (as in texture, not as in Chewbacca) teething treats and a turquoise-and-red gingham collar. He names him Catcher, excited to toss a ball with his new pal.

A blend of two anxious breeds, Catcher is anything but a retrieving kind of playmate. He’s a velcro dog, meaning he’s always under our feet and won’t explore the backyard — not even with Jake — unless his people are with him. When we walk him, he takes his shepherding job very seriously, barking loudly at all other dogs we come across, clearly an order to fall in line. While gruff-sounding, he absolutely refuses to step in wet grass and will avoid a puddle at all costs, earning him the nickname “Prissy Paws.”

Eventually, we adopt yet a third dog, a small, deaf miniature schnoodle pup named Snowball who follows Catcher around, just as Catcher once did to Jake. And then, at the age of 13, Jake, riddled with spinal arthritis, takes his final walk. Catcher steps into the role of alpha.

Catcher shamelessly does become a sort of retriever, but only of food and ice cubes. When the freezer door opens, he comes running, Snowball following his lead since she can’t hear the action herself. He stands watch as Snowball chows down each morning just in case she leaves any morsel of kibble behind.

We learn to keep all food off the kitchen counters — except for that one very full tray of holiday cookies my mom lovingly baked for us. Headed out in various directions, we accidentally left the dogs alone in the house, tantalized by the smell of butter and sugar wafting out from under its Saran Wrap seal. We return home to empty muffin-pan liners that once housed cookies strewn everywhere, scarcely a crumb in sight. Snowball, who doesn’t hear the car pull up, is gleefully licking the floor when the front door opens. Meanwhile, Catcher hides under the dining table with a look that I assume is guilt but soon discover is intense gastrointestinal distress. One soiled and discarded area rug later, he’s absolutely fine and, I assure Chris, “He will learn nothing from this.”

And so, it seems to us that he will live forever — or at least until 13 like Charlie and Jake. But, just a couple months after his 11th birthday, he falls ill suddenly and there’s nothing we can do. On another hot, late-July day, Chris, Sawyer, Emmy and I once again surround him as we did the day we brought him home. “You are a good boy,” I choke out through tears. We all tell him how loved he is as we stroke his ears, his back, his muzzle. And then we let him go.

Back at home, that afternoon, a bright-white gardenia blooms outside the window where I work. The bush had dropped its last blossom of the season a couple weeks earlier. I point it out to Chris, certain that Catcher is letting us know he’s at peace. I can tell by the look on his face he’s not buying it.

Snowball mopes around the house, grieving, too, but we give her extra treats and snuggles. Chris strokes her fluffy ears, sighs, and says to her, but more to me, “Well, I guess we will be a one-dog family now.”

While I know I need time to process my own feelings, I also know that we are solidly, forever a two-dog kind of family. Or three.

Months later when I begin to put together our bi-annual O.Henry pet issue, the one in your paws right now, I am treading dangerous waters. Of all things, I decide to write about a local monk whose new best friend was just adopted from Guilford County Animal Services (see page 42), which involves emailing shelter employees, researching their rescue services and watching videos they’ve posted on social media. The algorithms do their thing and suddenly my Facebook feed is nothing but sweet snouts in need of new homes. Cue Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel” and grab some tissues.

A video of a timid, rust-and-black hound mix catches my eye. I show Chris, fully aware of his soft spot for hounds. A smile spreads across his face and I can tell he’s in — that is, until his logical brain takes over. He sighs. “Do we really need another dog, Cassie?”

“It’s not about what we need,” I answer.

Just a few days later, the morning after Emmy returns home from her first year of college, Cider, our brown-eyed hound, comes home, too. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2026 Chaos Theory Department

Home Grown

Buffy, the Unrepentant

A terrier on a tear

By Cynthia Adams

Illustration by Cambpell Pringle

The flapdoodle in our household began when my friend asked about our potentially rescuing Buffy, whose elderly owner had died.

As his owner grew weak and debilitated, Buffy was relegated to the horse barn. He had already lost most of his “inside” manners and was nearly feral when we picked him up.

If Buffy was compatible with our senior dogs, we would keep him ourselves. Either way, we would at least help place a Yorkie who seemed to know he possessed star power. This Buffy was no vampire slayer — just a tiny, prickly terrier, I cooed when we met.

Looks, dear readers, can be deceptive.

The pup was small enough to fit in my workbag. That is, if I could have wrestled the toffee-colored charmer, as strong and feisty as a Tasmanian devil, into it. He seemed determined to remain with the horses, which was not an option. I coaxed him into my arms, and we returned to Greensboro to introduce him to our pack.

Of course, this all happened just as we were leaving for a long-planned vacation. Our dogsitter agreed to tend to a third dog — along with our deaf and blind senior mutt and aging mini-Schnauzer.

We swiftly learned Buffy had no desire to adapt to our older, cranky territorial dogs. On return from our weeklong trip, most of the first floor and furniture had been marked by an ambitiously assertive Buffy. Several wooden floors were damaged. Worse, Buffy was not just a terrier, but a terror.

The dogsitter was exasperated. Buffy, she reported, was incorrigible. She suspected, as we did, that Buffy had never been socialized, accustomed to being the one and only alpha dog.

Weeks later, chaos continued.

We reluctantly decided to find a loving home where Buffy, the cutest possible anarchist, could happily dominate.

Working with a pet daycare, we distributed flyers with a picture of photogenic Buffy explaining his history. We stressed what seemed best, an older owner with no other dogs. Unless we found such a home, Buffy would remain with us. With the help of the doggie daycare staff, we began fielding eager interviews.

One day, the daycare called to tell us that a retired lady had come in seeking to adopt, having lost a previous Yorkie who “looked exactly like Buffy.”

She was a cutie herself; the perfect match! Buffy seemed to agree, practically jumping into the woman’s arms at first meeting. My heart soared. After subsequent meetings and checking references, we packed up Buffy’s new bed, bowls and toys. The duo left all smiles — even the tiny terror seemed to grin.

Periodically, I checked on Buffy. They were happily ensconced in Raleigh, her new owner reported. But trouble in paradise ensued.

“I’m concerned about Buffy,” the woman announced over the phone one night without preamble.

Uh-oh. Here it comes, I thought. Was it his old habit of peeing on furniture?

Was he unwell? Nope, Buffy’s health was excellent. She nervously cleared her throat. He has issues, she said.

“I took him to Bible study with me, just like I used to take my Alfie. But, Buffy acted horribly.”

What had happened? I gulped.

“I don’t want to say, it’s so vulgar,” she answered. Vulgar? A Yorkie?

Finally, she spoke. “Buffy humped his toy! Right there at Bible study. Everybody saw it.”

I joked. “Maybe Buffy isn’t a Baptist?”

The woman was unamused.

We agreed to talk in a few days, and I suggested Buffy not accompany her to the meetings. Wouldn’t that resolve it?

The next time we talked, Buffy’s owner remained upset, despite admitting that otherwise, his behavior was mostly good.

“He has a sex problem,” she reluctantly reported. “Buffy likes to sleep on the chaise in my bedroom, right where Alfie slept.”

I took a deep breath, completely uncertain where this was going.

“He looks straight at me and humps his toy. Like he’s goading me. It’s indecent!” she cried.

My heart broke for the miscreant Yorkie. I told her I would come for him.

“No,” she replied slowly. “He’s testing me. But I’ll keep praying on it.”

Eventually a détente was reached. I wasn’t sure I had to know exactly how.

Still . . . I wondered. Was Buffy back in Bible study? Was he swaddled like Alfie on the chaise, peeking innocently at his devout owner?

I considered the many reasons she relented: Buffy’s button nose? His bright little eyes? That perky swagger!

Or did Buffy leverage the power of the unrepentant? For, as my God-fearing Baptist grandmother said, “The good Lord sure does love a sinner.” OH

Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor to O.Henry magazine.

2026 Department Home Grown

Almanac July 2026

July is a carnival of butterflies.

As sunlight saturates the riotous garden, yellow and black visions float from Joe-pye weed to purple coneflower, pausing at each blossom like boats anchoring at tiny, teetering berths.

Seconds pass. Nectar passes through proboscis. Yet, time stands still.

Imagine breaking out of chrysalis to emerge here, in the lushness of summer. Kissing each flower. Delighting in an endless banquet. Relishing a lifetime in 10 ambrosial days.

These wonders leave us awestruck.

In sweeping fields, where grass cicadas and katydids broadcast themselves, buckeyes startle wrens and warblers with their wild, wide-eyed wingspots.

Life drifts blissfully along.

Silver-spotted skippers wish upon electric purple blazing star. Painted ladies worship cosmos flowers. Fritillaries flit among zinnia and thistle.

Walk through the forest, where summer azures appear as paper crafts, moonlit fairies, dainty apparitions. Dip your feet into the creek’s cool waters. Feel time slow when a winged one lights upon your salt-laced finger.

Embody the transmission. Move at the speed of summer. Taste the earth through your feet as you walk upon it. Let the flowers guide you.

Here, where milkweed and monarch embrace, sip the nectar of the ephemeral. Slower. Slower. Slower, still.

Anchor yourself in this moment. Delight in the banquet. Relish in the wonder of these timeless days, this fluttering carnival of a lifetime.

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.

— Rabindranath Tagore

What’s Poppin’

The summer garden spills.

Tomatoes swell on the vine. The corn silks tell of peak sweetness. The berries grow fat in the life-giving sun. The peaches are popping, too.

The annual N.C. Peach Festival takes place in Candor (Peach Capital of N.C.) July 16–18. Among the festivities: a hot wing competition, live music in the park, family fun and homemade peach ice cream. Get the sweet-and-juicy scoop at ncpeachfestival.com.

Folk Medicine

It wouldn’t be summer without fresh watermelon, the nasal cries of nighthawks and — oh, yes — poison ivy.

You know the rhyme: Leaves of three, let it be. But what of the antidote?

Enter jewelweed, the tall, native beauty thriving along stream banks and moist woodland edges. Also called orange balsam, orange jewelweed, spotted jewelweed and spotted touch-me-not, this self-seeding summer annual is known by its orange, trumpet-shaped blossoms, which dangle from the plant like fiery pendants.

Native Americans used jewelweed as medicine, applying sap from its stem and leaves to relieve skin irritations, including rashes from poison ivy and stinging nettle.

Thanks to nature’s endless brilliance, it’s common to find jewelweed growing wherever poison ivy runs wild. And guess who adores those tubular flowers? Hummingbirds love its sugary nectar, making them a primary pollinator for this summer-blooming plant ally. OH

2026 Department

Tiny Tale

Youth Is Nothing . . .

But the absence of excess

By Elena Yarmak

Illustration by Miranda Glyder

Grandma Lena’s dog-grooming salon sprang up right in the kitchen.

She declared her wish to trim the family dog, Axel, at home:

“Our elderly and sensitive Axel will be less stressed,” she said, “and $70 will stay in the family budget.”

The family loved the idea. Her son-in-law even bought a dog clipper, complete with a set of attachments.

The very first haircut transformed Axel beyond recognition. From an old, curly mutt, he turned into a sleek, smooth-coated, young-looking spaniel. His muzzle sharpened, his eyes opened to the world, his legs seemed longer. On walks, neighbors praised Grandma Lena’s skill.

Encouraged by success, she took on Zoe — her daughter’s friend’s lapdog. The client was promised a free “rejuvenation.”

An hour later, Zoe had become a mysterious exhibit: Her fur was gone entirely, leaving only smooth skin, and on her tail a coquettish tuft stuck out — like a cocktail umbrella.

Grandma beamed, proclaiming, “Exotic! Short, bold, with a twist!”

Reactions split. Her daughter called Zoe “a rat — a bald rat.” Her grandkids wanted to know where Zoe’s T-shirt was. A friend sat in stunned silence. But Grandma? She felt absolute confidence in her genius.

Now on walks, Zoe enjoyed heightened attention from the local gentlemen. Every male dog changed his route to confess love at first sight.

“What did you expect?” Grandma shrugged, like an artist certain of her masterpiece. “Youth is nothing but the absence of excess.” OH

Elena Yarmak is a writer of short, observant stories that find humor in everyday life.

2026 Department Tiny Tale

State of Mind

Doing the Wave

From Ocracoke to Rockingham

By Tommy Tomlinson

Illustration by Gary Palmer

Summer comes in waves.

Many years ago I went through a rough stretch, mostly of my own making, and ended up needing to clear my head for a while. I drove to the Outer Banks, traveling alone. I took the ferry from Swan Quarter to Ocracoke, piddled around in the village for a couple of hours, then aimed the car for Hatteras.

Ocracoke tapers to a thin strand that can be secluded even in high season. I found a spot to pull over and stepped between dunes onto an empty beach. Not a soul in either direction. The only sounds were the wind and the waves. Those waves: calm and steady, a wet metronome. I got in and rolled in the warm ocean like an otter. Every so often a wave would give me a gentle slap. Snap out of it, son. Everything’s going to be fine.

The waves are even milder on rivers and lakes, at least usually. When you see whitecaps on fresh water you know a storm is coming. That’s when you pull up anchor and gun the outboard and hope you get back to the landing before the sky breaks open. Waves can be a warning, too.

They can also be a mirage. When I was a kid I was mesmerized every summer by the shining puddles that always appeared up ahead on the road, only to disappear when we got close. Much later I found out it’s called heat shimmer, and it happens when a surface like asphalt gets much hotter than the air just above it, refracting the light in between. The same thing on sand creates a false oasis — the thing that drives desert wanderers crazy in the movies.

That road shimmer was my introduction to the idea that some things in life are always dancing just out of your reach, and that maybe they were never really there in the first place.

It takes time to learn some lessons. For example, when waves of heat are rising from a car, it’s not a good time to sit on the hood wearing shorts. The backs of my thighs learned that one the hard way.

It also took time to learn that people in other places don’t wave the way we do in the South. This especially applies to what I think of as the two-lane wave — the wave you give somebody when you’re slowly passing them in a car. To me, there are a couple of times when that wave is mandatory. One, if you’re out in the country and drive by somebody on the side of the road. Two, if you’re on a narrow street or at a four-way stop and somebody lets you through. I live in a neighborhood with a lot of narrow streets, and my experience is that you get the wave about half the time. Every time I don’t get the wave, I always wonder where up North the driver came from. This is not fair. But barring any proper research I’m gonna roll with it.

You might know about the debate over exactly what Bruce Springsteen sings in the first line of “Thunder Road.” The screen door slams / Mary’s dress . . . What’s the next word? On the record it’s hard to tell. I have always heard it as Mary’s dress sways. Springsteen’s manager has said that it’s definitely “sways.” It feels to me like the most poetic word, the most evocative. But many other Springsteen fans — including my dear friend Joe Posnanski, a fellow Charlottean — swear that the line is, or at least should be, Mary’s dress waves. Joe has written thousands of words about this over the years. It is one of those debates that means everything and nothing, much the same way that it means everything and nothing to argue about the greatest baseball player of all time. (Joe, who wrote an entire book called The Baseball 100, says Willie Mays; the correct answer is Henry Aaron.) Joe has not convinced me on “waves” and probably never will. But when I play “Thunder Road,” I always listen close to that first line. I kind of want to hear “waves,” at least one time. Not because I want Joe to be right, but because you should try, when you can, to feel what someone else feels.

I had a neighbor one time who loved to listen to NASCAR on the radio. Every Sunday afternoon in the summer he would take his old AM/FM portable out to the patio behind his trailer and turn on the race from Rockingham or Martinsville or wherever. This was back in the ’70s, when Richard Petty won most of the time, Cale Yarborough and Bobby Allison occasionally gave him hell, and David Pearson lingered at the back of the pack, waiting to strike. I wasn’t much of a fan of racing, but I was a fan of my neighbor. So sometimes I’d go over there and we’d drink cold Cokes and listen to the howling engines, those sound waves traveling from the track through the radio to our ears in ways that I still do not fully understand.

The one thing waves have in common is that they carry energy. Something desires to get from one place to another and a wave is the vehicle. That can be a pulse from somewhere deep in the ocean or the attraction from someone who caught your eye across the room. We are out more this time of year, exposed to the energies of the universe, and open to the waves that life brings our way.

Sometimes they are so powerful they can knock you sideways. But most of the time they’re just a pleasant ride, carrying us through the shimmer of a summer day and the promise of a summer night. OH

Tommy Tomlinson is the author of two books, The Elephant in the Room and Dogland. He was a longtime columnist for the Charlotte Observer and has written for Esquire, The Atlantic, ESPN the Magazine and many other publications. His online newsletter is called The Writing Shed. He lives in Charlotte with his wife, Alix Felsing.

2026 Department State of Mind

Omnivorous Reader

The Skill of Perseverance

The remarkable second act of John Quincy Adams

By Jim Moriarty

If your American history IQ, like mine, falls somewhere between Animal House’s Flounder — “fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son” — and the great David McCullough, you’ll find America’s Founding Son both an enlightening and rewarding portrayal of our sixth president, John Quincy Adams.

It’s written by Bob Crawford, something of an oddity in itself given he’s the upright bass player for The Avett Brothers band. “For more than two decades, I’ve studied American history while rambling up and down the interstates, freeways, and back roads of America,” Crawford writes in his introduction. While not exactly an autodidact, his lifelong fascination, beginning as a kid collecting fliers about historic landmarks at highway welcome centers, places him in the company of another member of the band, Scott Avett, who has a side hustle as an admired visual artist.

With the recent passing of Ted Turner, one is reminded of the quote he often attributed to his father, “Be sure to set your goals so high that you can’t possibly accomplish them in one lifetime.” This is, in fact, the crux of Crawford’s thesis about Adams and the goal was, or became, the abolition of slavery. His primary source is Adams’ own diaries, written faithfully on a daily basis, that illuminate the arc of JQA’s understanding of how America must eventually, and tragically, cope with its most egregious and contradictory failing.

Jimmy Carter is often extolled as a man who, in the modern age at least, made the most of his post presidency, but he was a piker compared to John Quincy, who, after losing the presidential race of 1828, briefly considered retiring from public life but instead won election to the U.S. House of Representatives. He served the citizens of Massachusetts in that capacity from 1831 until his death in 1848, when he collapsed at his desk in the House chamber and died two days later on a couch in the Speaker’s Room in the Capitol building. During those 17 years, Adams became a formidable opponent of slavery, argued the Amistad case before the Supreme Court, defeated the “gag” rule designed to muffle anti-slavery petitions, and outmaneuvered efforts, led by representatives of the “slavocracy,” as Crawford calls it, to censure him.

“John Quincy Adams may not have been an extraordinary president like Washington and Lincoln, but he is our most extraordinary ex-president. A maverick. A public servant. An American hero,” Crawford concludes.

Adams’ opposition to slavery was never in question, but his theories on what exactly to do about it evolved over time, a transition Crawford illustrates through Adams’ diary and speeches. “America’s founding son had reached the end of his patience,” Crawford writes of an 1844 clash on the House floor. “He shuddered in 1820, when he prophesied a violent dissolution of the Union, but all he had experienced in the nearly twenty-five years since proved to him that the South would never, ever, voluntarily or otherwise, give up being the enslavers.”

Crawford’s fascination with the period of American history between the War of 1812 and the Civil War came into focus after reading Sean Wilentz’s The Rise of American Democracy: Jefferson to Lincoln. His own study of John Quincy is divided into three acts. The first begins with Adams’ appointment as secretary of state under James Monroe, covers his election to the presidency in the House of Representatives in 1824 (the second time the young republic picked a president in that manner), his loss to Andrew Jackson in their rematch in 1828 and concludes with the voters of Plymouth, Massachusetts, sending him to the House as their representative. In act two Crawford does an admirable job of setting the table. “In 1835, the slavery issue was tearing the fabric of the nation apart. Its threads tossed into a smoldering furnace of bigotry and hate. And there was Adams. A witness to all of it. Sitting on the fence. Waiting for his moment.” That moment builds to a crescendo in act three.

The political figures of the day — Jackson, Henry Clay, John C. Calhoun, Martin Van Buren — are carefully drawn, as are the central issues of nullification (What if the federal government says one thing and a state refuses?) and what to do about Texas. Of equal, or even greater, interest are the abolitionists: Benjamin Lundy, Charles Finney, Theodore Weld, Arthur Tappan (full disclosure, the square at my alma mater is named Tappan Square), William Lloyd Garrison and the writings of David Walker.

When Crawford first pitched the idea of America’s Founding Son to his agent, he thought he’d be paired with a writer to produce the final work. Instead, he was left to his own devices. The result is highly readable, no small feat when you’re bound to be leaning on quotes written in the first half of the 19th century. If there is any complaint — and it is admittedly minor — it’s that on a rare occasion or two he strays too far into the vernacular of his own day, seemingly trying a bit too hard to prove that history doesn’t have to be tedious and dense. This is, perhaps, an innocent byproduct of cohosting his history podcast, “The Road to Now.”

Where Crawford ends up is in praise of a historical figure most of us, I’d venture to say, don’t often associate with greatness. “Adams brought the issue of slavery out of the darkness and into the light of the center of politics in the United States — the People’s House. John Quincy Adams preserved and protected the American democracy established by the founding generation — his father’s generation,” writes Crawford. “As the man standing in the breach, Adams passed the aspirations of the Declaration of Independence on to the next generation. With one hand reaching back to the founding and the other reaching forward toward the Civil War, John Quincy Adams is a bridge and perhaps the best representation of America’s tortured adolescence.”

If, in reading Founding Son, you see traces of modern America — our deeply flawed and fractured America — so does Crawford. “I can’t say for sure whether history repeats or rhymes, but I do notice echoes from the past in our present. That’s because history is driven by people — and people haven’t changed since 1776,” he writes. “Truth be told, people haven’t changed since Adam and Eve, or however you signify the beginning of time (or should I say history?). Spend a little time reading about the 1830s and 1840s, and you’ll encounter figures who feel eerily familiar. They dressed differently, used different slang and communicated via what now seem like antiquated technologies — but in a very real sense, we are them and they are us.” OH

Jim Moriarty is the editor of PineStraw. He can be reached at jjmpinestraw@gmail.com.

2026 Department Omnivorous Reader

Life’s Funny

Begin the Begats

A longstanding Greensboro church makes room for an up-and-coming flock

By Maria Johnson

Photograph by Lynn Donovan

You might remember my January 2023 column about a venerable, old Greensboro church’s plan to sell their property and downsize, a sort of spiritual and physical transformation.

Well, the 120-year-old Presbyterian Church of the Covenant — worshippers affectionately call the place “peacock,” the phonetic version of PCOC — finally has a reason to flash its feathers.

The small congregation has sold their massive complex and found a more suitable space that’s literally across the street.

At the same time, the old church property has been assumed by a younger, up-and-coming congregation, the Citadel of Praise Church & Campus Ministries, which has occupied different rental spaces around Greensboro since its founding 23 years ago. Finally, the nondenominational, charismatic congregation has a home of its own.

In many ways, it’s a story of generational and societal change written on the back of a church program.

“It feels like a torch is being passed,” says Joyce Powers, an 83-year-old PCOC member and self-described “catalyst” of the hand-off.

First, a little history.

PCOC, then called the Walker Avenue Presbyterian Church, started in 1906 as an offshoot of First Presbyterian Church and Westminster Presbyterian, both on the edges of downtown Greensboro.

The upstart church, which changed its name a few years later, focused on serving young people around Greensboro College and the state-run school that would later become UNCG.

For years, the congregation worshipped in a small, wooden church. Then, backed by several prominent families, they hired notable architect Harry Barton — who also drew plans for the Guilford County courthouse, as well as UNCG’s auditorium and chancellor’s house — to design a stately house of worship.

Done in the Neoclassical Revival style, the 1919 building hunkers at the corner of Mendenhall Street and Walker Avenue. Additions eventually covered much of that block.

From the beginning, PCOC was an activist church.

Members nursed the sick during the recurring flu pandemic of the late 1910s.

They fed soldiers who paused at Greensboro’s Overseas Replacement Depot in World War II.

They housed programs that provided child care, counseling, a preschool for blind children, and enrichment for disabled adults.

More recently, as their numbers dwindled, they leased out worship space to different denominations and nondenominational groups, as well as to artists and musicians.

In 2019, Greensboro native and Grammy-winning musician Rhiannon Giddens, who once attended PCOC, joined other local musicians at the church for a concert benefitting the Experiential School of Greensboro.

By the time the COVID pandemic hit — nearly 100 years after the flu pandemic — the congregation, which numbered 30 on a good Sunday, knew they had to make a change. As with many mainline U.S. churches, shrinking membership made it difficult to keep the physical plant going.

They had a grand vision.

They would sell their sprawling complex to a developer who would keep the property largely intact, rehab it into an affordable live-work-play space and, hopefully, rent back a space to PCOC so the congregation could continue to worship there.

The church entertained potential buyers starting in 2023.

Several developers looked at the fixer-upper.

And passed.

“There was hope. Then there was not. Then there was hope. Then there was not. We went through a roller coaster,” Powers says.

Finally, the church hired an agency that specializes in selling churches nationwide, and the property was listed for sale “as is.”

That’s how the Rev. Greg Drumwright, who started his church in 2003, just before graduating from N.C. A&T, found out about the property. Someone else had filled out an online contact form using his name, and an agent followed up.

Drumwright — who had indeed been searching for a permanent home for his flock but had no idea PCOC was up for grabs — went with the flow.

A showing was arranged.

Drumwright met PCOC’s minister, Rev. Mark Sandlin, and common threads quickly emerged. Both had attended divinity school at Wake Forest University.

Drumwright also learned that PCOC was once pastored by the Rev. Z. Holler, a well-known civil and labor rights activist. A social justice advocate in the same vein, Drumwright — who received national attention for ministering to George Floyd’s family during the 2021 trial of Floyd’s killer, a former Minneapolis police officer — felt a kinship between the churches.

“It felt like we were meeting our aunts and uncles and grandparents,” he says. “I would call that providential.”

Like the PCOC of yore, the Citadel is known for its outreach to college students and for its hands-on involvement in social and political issues. Drumwright walks his talk; he’s the Democratic candidate for an at-large seat on the Guilford County Board of Commissioners, and Powers says PCOC members back him.

“This is a guy who makes things happen,” she says.

In December, PCOC members, most of whom are white, worshipped in their old home for the last time, alongside the Citadel’s mostly Black congregation.

PCOC mustered most of its 40 members, many of them silver-haired.

The Citadel, which boasts a congregation of more than 250 people, most in their 20s, 30s and 40s, filled the rest of the pews. The Citadel choir belted out hymns of praise.

“They shook the dust off the chandeliers,” says Powers. “It was wonderful.”

“It felt transitional and transformational,” says Drumwright.

The churches closed the sale on the last day of 2025.

Knowing that the property went to a growing church, PCOC members leased another space right across Walker Avenue, inside the Victorian home known as the Holderness House, which was built for the current owner, the Presbyterian Campus Ministry.

The resettled congregation will hold an open house with music, lemonade and watermelon from 5–7:30 p.m., Saturday, July 18, with a rain date of Sunday, July 19.

Drumwright says the Citadel, too, plans an open house, probably in the late summer or early fall, once they’ve spruced up the sanctuary and fellowship hall.

Like elderly homeowners who sell their property to younger families, Powers says PCOC members delight in watching from across the street as the Citadel’s energetic members plant flowers and work to restore the aging church home.

And who knows? Maybe someday PCOC members will move back in with their spiritual children.

“We’ve told them: ‘You can always come home,’” says Drumwright. OH

Maria Johnson is a contributing editor of O.Henry. Email her at ohenrymaria@gmail.com.

2026 Department Life's Funny